Battlecruiser Alamo: Malware Blues

by Richard Tongue

   Looking around, he saw the men tensing up, ready to make their move. If he could see it, the enemy could as well, and there was a better than even chance that they had heard every word he had said over the communications system. None of it mattered. The men were waiting for a countdown he had no intention of starting, and he just hoped that the others would have the wit to take the initiative when he made his move.

   Glancing at Gurung, the veteran flashed him a thin smile, and he realized that at least one of his platoon had worked out what he was planning. When he started, he’d have company, no matter what his orders had been. He reached down into the pouch at his belt, pulling out a pair of smoke grenades. There were too many obstructions for him to throw it at the enemy, but if he set the time delay right, he might be able to get it to them another way.

   Taking a few deep breaths, his eyes walked the path from his position to the airlock, the depression the boarding party was using as cover. He could see Steele leading the party, pointing out positions, and sighed as he saw Scott with them, hiding in a corner, her eyes locked on the floor. He looked across at Gurung and imperceptibly nodded three times. Mentally counting down those three seconds, he rolled underneath the shuttle he was hiding behind and sprinted towards the airlock, bowling the grenade underarm towards his target.

   Over to his right, Gurung was starting his own mad charge. Astonishingly, the boarding party was slow in opening fire, as though they couldn’t quite believe that two people were racing into their guns, but bullets began to rattle across the deck as they dashed forward, Corporal Hunt and his force offering belated suppressing fire.

   Each heartbeat was an eternity, one step closer to his target, an easier shot for his foe. He felt a bullet brush past his head, felt the rush of wind as it flew into a tangle of cables behind him. Finally, the grenade went off, filling the room with smoke, and his IR goggles snapped into life. They had image intensification as well, but he wanted a couple of seconds of surprise to get him into position, and he got them, jumping down into the pit and opening fire.

   Chaos and confusion reigned. He’d knocked the weapon away from one of the traitors when he landed, and managed to fire a shot in his direction, cursing as it rebounded from the deck behind him. He managed a second shot before anyone could react, felling a scowling woman standing next to Scott, her pistol dropping down to the deck as she tumbled forward.

   Three more bullets rang out at the same time, and he dropped and rolled to get out of the way, trying not to provide a stationary target. He was more skillful than his opponents, and his shot brought down his target. Then Gurung arrived, dropping on top of another of them, sending the two of them tumbling.

   Cooper turned, and saw Scott with a pistol leveled at his head. There was no time to duck, to return fire, not even to come up with some appropriate last words. She fired, and the crack of the bullet flew past his ear, bringing down a man standing behind him, the knife in his hand tumbling to the deck.

   He turned, dumbfounded, and Steele used his hesitation to duck into the crawlspace, her nearest comrade following her, leaving the others to their fate. Scott fired, narrowly missing Steele, then started after her, turning back to Cooper for a second.

   “Come on,” she said. “We might be able to catch them if we’re quick.”

   Hunt and his men were at the edge of the pit now, the last of the remaining traitors felled by a skilled punch from Gurung, and Cooper followed Scott into the tight corridors. He dropped his rifle, drawing his pistol instead, and chased after the erstwhile hijacker, not certain what to believe.

   “Third Squad, to me!” he yelled, his voice echoing through the shafts. He struggled to keep up with the agile Scott as she ducked around tight corners, nimbly leaping over stacks of crates. They were heading back towards the shuttle, where two of his guards were waiting. A series of footsteps behind him told him that reinforcements were on the way.

   Scott pushed open a hatch, ducking down as a bullet cracked over her head, then jumping over and racing forward. Cooper was only a few seconds behind her, watching as she ducked into cover behind a pair of crates. Just ahead of them Steele was standing over Dean’s twitching body, her single remaining comrade by her side.

   Cooper climbed up to the deck, Scott providing him with covering fire, keeping Steele pinned down as he made his way forward.

   “You got help coming?” she asked.

   “Third Squad.”

   “You take the left, I’ll take the right,” she replied. “Go.”

   Not waiting to argue, he raced toward, trusting his instincts, while Steele and her colleague bolted for the shuttle. His shot went wild, somewhere into the cabin, but Scott was dead center with her shot, the other traitor dropping just short of the hatch. The airlock door slammed shut before Cooper could fire again, and he dashed for the console, pounding his fist against the wall as he saw that Steele had engaged the emergency systems, tossing the shuttle away from the ship.

   Vaughan climbed up onto the deck, leveling his pistol on Scott, but Cooper waved his hand.

   “Secure your weapon, Corporal.”

   “Hunt said she was on their side.”

   “They took me prisoner, Corporal,” she replied. “Though I guess they thought they were rescuing me.”

   “I saw her kill two of them, Corporal,” Cooper added, “saving my life into the process. If this is some sort of trick, it’s hurting the bad guys more than it is hurting us. Jackson, see to these two.”

   Scott walked over to the dead traitor, kneeling beside him to take his vital signs. “Dead,” she said.

   Gurung walked down the corridor towards them, a slightly red face the only evidence of the desperate sprint he must have made to get there in time.

   “That’s true of most of them,” he added. “Six dead, three wounded, and at least two of them are probably going to be joining their friends in the near future. I’ve already called Doctor Duquesne, she’s on her way.”

   Pulling out his communicator, Cooper said, “We’ve fought back the boarding teams, but the shuttle got away. Can you track it?”

   “Full-boost back to Wyvern,” Orlova replied.

   “It’s just Steele on board. She’s going to have a very lonely ride. We’ve got the numbers down a bit for you, ma’am.”

   “Thanks, Ensign. You’d better get back to combat stations. We’ll be in firing range of Wyvern again in less than a minute. Good luck.”

   “Good hunting, ma’am. Cooper out.” Looking around, he said, “You heard her. All hands to stand-by stations. Sergeant, go and help with the wounded. Take a fire team. I’ll be along in a minute.” As the others followed his orders, he walked over to Scott, who held out her pistol, butt first.

   “Here,” she said.

   Shaking his head, he replied, “You saved my life back there.”

   “You’d have done the same for me.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “It felt right. As though I finally had a chance to pick a side.”

   Nodding, Cooper said, “First battle?”

   “That I know of.”

   “You’ll get the shakes later. Right now the adrenaline’s keeping you going. Plan to get drunk as soon as this battle is over. Depending on the circumstances, I might even join you.” Gesturing at the pistol, he said, “You might as well keep that. You’re probably the best shot on the ship, and there’s no point wasting that sort of skill if they try and board us again.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “If you were going to shoot me, you’d have done it already. Come on, let’s get down to the hangar deck and see if you are as handy with a medikit as you are with a pistol.”

   “But the ship…”

   “Maggie will find a way. She always does.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “Absolutely,” he lied.

  Chapter 11

   Orlova scrolled down the datapad, looking at the in
itial damage report, an ever-lengthening list of crippling problems. Wyvern’s gunner had known exactly where to hit to cause the most damage, and had taken maximum advantage of his skills. She glanced up at the holodisplay, a sea of crimson and amber, and shook her head.

   “Main engines, Grogan?”

   “Six minutes, ma’am. That’s the best we can do.”

   “Firing range in four,” Spinelli said, looking up at his display. “No change to target aspect. Particle beams are still deployed, and they’ve built up their power levels to maximum.” Glancing across at Orlova, he said, “Sensor resolution is deteriorating, but I think I can target a missile right down their throats for you.”

   “No point,” Hooke said. “They’ve got all our codes. With the touch of a button they can swipe our missiles out of the air. I can’t protect them against that.” He paused, then said, “I can’t guarantee better than a ten percent success rate.”

   “That doesn’t even give us one strike,” Grant said.

   “Laser status?” Orlova asked.

   “Still charged, and ready to fire,” Nelyubov replied. “If I can get it on target, I could knock out half a dozen of their critical systems. That’s a small ship out there.”

   At the helm, Foster’s hands continued to rattle across the controls as she fought a desperate battle to stabilize the ship. Orlova stepped forward, looking down at her work, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

   “Do the best you can, Midshipman. I know it’s difficult.”

   “If we could stop these damn hull breaches,” she said. “Even with only a quarter of the thrusters, I’d be able to get her back under control.” With a sigh, she replied, “I can’t guarantee a shot.”

   “Even if you could, they’d see it coming,” Powell said. “It wouldn’t be hard for them to get out of the way.”

   “Come on, people, we’ve got three minutes to come up with some sort of a battle plan,” Orlova said. “Damaged as we are, we’re still more than a match for a scoutship. Hooke, can you reprogram the missiles for dumb-fire?”

   “Sure, but we won’t hit anything.”

   “We will if we get close enough,” she replied. “Start working on it.” Tapping a control, she said, “Kowalski, you got some people spare?”

   The chief replied, “What for?”

   “I need the missiles moved from the tubes to the nearest escape pods. You’ve got seventy seconds. No arguments, make it happen. Orlova out.”

   Nodding, Nelyubov said, “Clever. We won’t need to activate them until they’re close enough to spit at Wyvern. You realize there’ll be no target selection, though. Not at that range, controlled that way.”

   “Not to mention that we have no guarantee that Wyvern won’t just shoot the escape pods out of the sky,” Grant added.

   “We’ll worry about that it in a minute. Start setting up the pods to launch on my signal.” She paused, then said, “Grogan, I need a hull breach.”

   “Haven’t we got enough already?”

   “Near the launch tubes. Pick a spot and relay it to Ensign Cooper. Tell him to set charges on the hull, and to make it look good.”

   “Stealing their idea?” Nelyubov said.

   “Hopefully they’ll take it as a compliment.” She looked up at the strategic display, watching Wyvern creep closer, drifting into firing range. A hundred and fifty seconds to go. “Foster, any luck on the helm?”

   “It just isn’t working, ma’am,” she said. “She’s drifting. I can’t hold a consistent heading.”

   “Work with the pressure leaks, not against them,” Orlova muttered. “We only need to be lined up for a fraction of a second, Midshipman. Give me that shot.”

   “I’ll try, ma’am,” she said, her face fixed in a frown. She looked down at her station, her hands darting across the controls, making pin-point adjustments, her eyes locked on the status monitor.

   “Signal from Wyvern, ma’am,” Weitzman said. “I have a Captain Kline, wanting to speak to the commanding officer. He wishes to discuss terms of surrender.”

   All eyes locked on Orlova, who nodded, “I’ll speak to him in a minute.”

   Nelyubov tapped in a command, then said, “Sub-Lieutenant Ronald Kline, alternate helmsman. Passed-over twice for promotion, despite the build-up, and only transferred to Wyvern two months ago.”

   “Jumped-up bastard promoted himself,” Grant said.

   Strapping on a headset, Orlova said, “Alamo Actual to Wyvern Actual. Do you read?”

   “I read you, Alamo,” a brutal voice replied. “Your ship is crippled, your weapons useless, and I can destroy you with my next pass. I call upon you to think of your crew and surrender your vessel.”

   “We beat off your first boarding party,” she replied. “Any further attempts will meet the same response.”

   “Brave words, but you can’t back them up. I repeat, you have no chance of victory in the battle.”

   “Then why are you bothering to talk to us?”

   “I don’t want to kill more than a hundred people. Don’t make me have to destroy your ship. I promise that you and your crew will be well-treated, and that you will be repatriated to the Confederation.”

   “Our safety in exchange for our ship?” Orlova asked. She gestured at Grogan, who nodded, her hands poised over a button. At a curt signal, she depressed it, and another explosion ripped through the hull, yet another area of the ship flashing red.

   “Wait one, Wyvern.” She counted to ten, then said, “I don’t think I’ve got much choice, do I?”

   “It would appear not.”

   “More than two dozen of my crew are trapped in areas about to become uninhabitable. May I have your permission to launch escape pods?” She closed her eyes, and silently prayed. “They will stay clear of the combat area.”

   “No,” Kline replied, just as she had hoped. “They will proceed alongside Wyvern, where I will have them under our guns. Hostages for your good conduct.”

   “These are crewmen under my command…,” she began.

   “They are my guarantee that you will co-operate. Launch your pods. Our shuttle will be coming over in five minutes to formally accept your surrender, and I suggest that you treat Lieutenant Steele with more respect this time. Wyvern out.”

   “Well, you heard the man,” Orlova said. “Get those pods launched.”

   With a nod, Grant tapped a control, and five new tracks appeared on the display, leisurely drifting towards the approaching scoutship, struggling to match course and speed on their slow thrusters. A series of numbers began to appear, rapidly updating as the computer calculated the optimum firing time. On dumb-fire, that was as close as possible to the target.

   “They’ll have a chance to get a retaliatory shot off,” Nelyubov said. “I’ve got another salvo in the tubes now. At least it might serve as a distraction, if nothing else.”

   “Change to target aspect,” Spinelli said. “Course alternation. They’re moving to match with our pods. No change to firing time.”

   “Keep watching them, Spaceman,” Orlova said. “We’ve got to make this as close to time-on-target as we can. Everything at the same moment. We might not get a second chance.”

   Nelyubov nodded, his eyes locked on his control. Foster remained focused on her console, still trying desperately to bring the ship under some sort of control, and to Orlova’s rear, Grogan was keeping up a running commentary as she routed damage control teams to their stations, using every second they had to get Alamo as battle-ready as she could.

   All of them were doing their very best, but unless this plan worked, it would all be for nothing. Two shots from the particle beam at long range had been devastating. A short-range blast could wipe out the ship in seconds.

   More than sixty seconds to go, and time seemed to drag. She longed to give the order to fire, to get it over with, to end the battle in one glorious second,
but they had to wait for the optimum time. A warning light flashed on, alerting her that Wyvern was now in weapons range, that particle beam still targeting Alamo. Directly at her location, if she was judging it correctly, ready to punch a hole in the side of the ship and tear the new bridge to pieces. At least if she failed, she wouldn’t have to live with it for long.

   “Ten seconds,” Nelyubov said.

   “Ride the helm, Midshipman,” Orlova added.

   “Change to target aspect!” Spinelli said. “Course change, away from the pods.”

   “Fire!” Orlova ordered, and Nelyubov tapped a control, the display zooming into the escape pods as the missiles burst out of them, as though escaping the confines of a chrysalis, tearing through space towards Wyvern. Six more missiles lanced away from Alamo, diving towards the enemy craft.

   “Energy spike!” Spinelli yelled, and Foster sent Alamo into a series of dizzying lurches and rolls as the particle beam opened up, a burst of energy scything through space. Orlova braced for the impact, for the ship to be torn asunder.

   “Miss!” Spinelli said. “By twenty meters!”

   “They’ll fire again,” Grant warned.

   “Doesn’t matter,” Nelyubov said. “Multiple impacts, all along their hull! We’ve got them!”

   “Bringing the nose around now,” Foster said. “I’ll likely miss.”

   For an instant, Alamo was lined up with the scoutship, it’s nose tracing a trail through the stars. That was all they needed, and an ugly black burn tore across the enemy vessel, a cloud of escaping air sending it tumbling.

   Before anyone could celebrate, the hull was rocked, a scream as thousands of micro-fractures opened up, more of the atmosphere leaking out into space, sending the ship tumbling once again.

   “Damage report,” Orlova said, struggling to hang on.

   “Outer hull damage, and major!” Grogan said. “Damage control teams are on the way, but I’m evacuating all affected areas.”